Not in This Abyss
by Blue Sailor
Summary: Tag to All Hell Breaks Loose part 2. After the crossroads deal, Dean needs to reassure himself that he really has Sam back. Wincest.


Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I _cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!

\- Emily Brontë, _Wuthering Heights_

* * *

Dean's only thought as he drives to the crossroads is that he won't— _can't_ —let Sam leave him again. Not like this.

He used to think the night Sam ran off to Stanford was the worst night of his life; in the silent, empty days that followed, he thought it impossible to miss anyone more than he missed his little brother. What he didn't know then, what he realizes now, is how comforting it was to know that even if Sam was gone, even if Dean couldn't see him or hear him or touch him, he was still out there somewhere. He never properly appreciated the ease with which he turned his car towards California to find Sam, when he decided the potential fallout was worth seeing him again, having him back by his side.

He appreciates it now, though. Because now Sam is lying in an abandoned house just outside of Cold Oak, and he might be only a few miles down the road, but he's _gone_ , out of reach, further than he's ever been. And Dean has never cared less about potential fallout than he does right now. He'll be damned before he'll let Sam leave again.

Literally.

#

The demon tastes of sulphur when he kisses her. Her lips are hot, nearly scorching, and her tongue brushes his like the first lick of infernal flame.

#

It's God he thanks when he returns to the house and sees Sam upright, even though he knows God had absolutely nothing to do with it. It just seems too much like a miracle, the way Sam's muscles flex and stretch as he tries to peer at the clean new scar on his back, the way he turns to look at Dean, his eyes bright and serious.

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on Sam as he crosses the room, unable to shake the fear that he'll disappear if he blinks. But Sam is still there, warm and solid and wonderfully real, when Dean sweeps him into a hug.

" _Ow,_ Dean," Sam complains, squirming back a little.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, man," says Dean, releasing him, although he thinks he could happily have stayed there, pressed against his brother's body, feeling the vital pulse of blood and breath, forever.

(Or at least a year—)

#

Dean stays close while they brush off the dusty old table in the dining room and sit down to eat and talk. He's finding it hard to focus, even though they're discussing events of world-ending importance; he's too absorbed in watching Sam, taking in the rosy flush of his skin, tracking every movement, trying to obliterate the image of the cold, pale, silent Sam that's still so stark in his mind. He's therefore caught somewhat by surprise when Sam starts to rise to his feet, saying, "Well, come on, then. Bobby's only a few hours away."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says Dean, alarmed. He jumps up, placing himself solidly in front of Sam, blocking him before he can get around the table. "Stop, Sam, _stop!_ Dammit."

Sam pauses, frowning. He doesn't get it, of course, doesn't know that the blank in his memory is due to something much worse than unconsciousness. Dean wishes he could blank that fact out of _his_ memory, too.

"Can't you just take care of yourself for a little bit? Huh?" he asks, pleading, because he's not ready to let Sam go just yet, not before he's had time to reassure himself that Sam is here, really _here_ , alive. "Just for a little bit."

But Sam shakes his head, his eyes all serious again, his brow wrinkled, apologetic but determined. "I'm sorry. No."

It's such a perfectly _Sam_ thing to say that Dean wants to cry with relief and frustration both. "Just—" His hands are gripping Sam's shoulders. He doesn't remember putting them there, but he tightens them now, pulling insistently. "Just come here."

Sam tolerates this hug for just about as long as he did the first one—that is, nowhere near long enough—before he's trying to break free again. This time, though, Dean doesn't let him, just locks his arms and presses in with chest and hips and thighs, as close as he can.

"Dude, what the hell," Sam grumbles. "We gotta _go!"_

"Not yet," says Dean. He tightens his grip, sliding a hand down Sam's back, tentative, still half-afraid he's going to find a ragged, wet, bloody hole next to his spine. But his palm runs smoothly from the nape of Sam's neck to his waist, and Dean relaxes, though he keeps his arms firmly around his brother, wishing Sam would hug back. He wants to be closer, closer, _closer,_ wants to feel Sam's heartbeat throbbing within his own chest.

"Dean, come on." Sam shifts against him, and something hot and fierce jolts through Dean's stomach.

He turns his head to bury his nose in the crook of Sam's neck, smelling only sweat and mud, no tang of dried blood or rotting meat, and sighs. "Just _stay_ for a minute, will ya?" he says. "Why you always tryna leave me?"

The words are quiet, mumbled, but Sam stops as suddenly as if he'd shouted. "What? What're you—"

And then Dean tilts his head to press his lips to Sam's skin.

He doesn't know why he does it, doesn't think about it beyond his need to ensure, completely, with sight, sound, touch, smell, _taste,_ that Sam is here, alive, with him.

"Dean—" says Sam, and his voice sounds different this time, strangled.

Dean pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wide, lips parted, and there's something vulnerable in his face that sends that hot, fierce jolt shooting through Dean's body again—

So he leans back in, and this time, he presses his lips to Sam's.

Sam makes another strangled noise in the back of his throat. For a moment Dean is worried he's going to push him away, but then his arms come up around him— _finally_ —and he kisses back, his mouth soft and open under Dean's. Dean can't help making a small noise of his own at that, because it feels so amazingly good, it's practically heaven. (The only heaven Dean is ever going to get, now.) But it's still not enough, so Dean deepens the kiss, biting Sam's lower lip, dragging it down to sweep his tongue along the silky wetness inside.

"Always taking off somewhere," he mutters, between hard, sharp little nips and kisses.

"I'm not leaving," Sam tells him, his breath panting over Dean's face. "Never again, okay? I'm here."

Dean moans as a shuddering wave of heat rolls through him, pooling low in his belly, making his cock swell, and he shoves his hips forward to grind against Sam's thigh. Sam is hard, too, and he gives a soft gasp as Dean moves, wraps his hands around the back of Dean's head, tilts his face up to kiss him while they rock against each other. Dean licks greedily into Sam's mouth, lapping at every sweet, sensitive crevice he can reach, so absorbed in the wet heat he almost doesn't notice Sam getting a hand down between them to stroke him through his jeans. He moans again, shifting to give Sam better access, letting him pull down the zipper and slip his hand inside.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam whispers, his hand sliding steady and firm over Dean's cock, base to tip and back again. "I'm here."

It's only a few strokes before Dean comes. Sam works him through it, his arm reassuringly snug around his waist, and when it's over Dean collapses against him, shaking, his lips brushing over the pulse point in Sam's neck.

#

In the car on the way to Bobby's, Dean points out that the world didn't end because they were a few minutes late getting started. Sam shoves him, but he's grinning, and his hands linger on Dean's arm longer than strictly necessary.

#

Dean can't quite stop himself blushing when Bobby looks at him after opening the door to find Sam standing there. Both of them are still a little breathless and disheveled because Dean had stopped the car just before turning into the salvage yard and announced that they were going no further until he'd made Sam come. He avoids Bobby's gaze as they walk into the house, wondering exactly how much the old man has guessed.

#

They get a few minutes alone in Bobby's spare bedroom while everyone packs up for the drive out to Wyoming. They've each got a stash of guns and knives spread out on one of the twin beds, and Dean is watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he cleans and stows his weapons. He wonders if Sam is thinking about the yellow-eyed demon, if he's as scared as Dean is. He longs to close the three-foot gap between them, but Sam's expression is distant, unreadable, and Dean's starting to feel a bit ashamed, now, of his clinginess, so he stays where he is.

It hurts, though, an ache somewhere deep in his chest, when Sam gathers up his duffel and rises to leave without looking at him. Dean keeps his eyes on the gun he's reassembling, determined not to watch Sam walk out the door. In fact, he's so focused on appearing unconcerned, he jumps slightly when a pair of arms slides around him from behind, Sam's chin hooking over his shoulder.

"You'll stay with me out there, right?" Sam murmurs, and the knot of hurt and fear in Dean's chest immediately loosens.

"'Course I will," he says, but the words sound too feeble for what he means, so he twists around to kiss the corner of Sam's mouth, trying to communicate that he'll stay with him no matter what, always, anywhere, forever.

(Even if his forever only lasts a year.)


End file.
